Storms
by girltype
Summary: Random Drabbles. My attempt at giving a little more depth to the characters...mostly kagome. oh shush, it helps me write.
1. Missing Pieces

A/N: Don't look at me like that. I'm having writing difficulties. Sometimes it helps for me to run away from what's stumping me…just hope I don't run too horribly far away. I might get lost and that would be bad.

**Storms**

**Missing Pieces**

_Odi et Amn: quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentro et excrucior – I love you and I hate you – You ask me why this is so; I do not know, but I feel it, and it torments me._

_**-Catullus **_

She is the one who is supposed to be whole.

They expect it of her; need it. She's the only one who does not fall under the shadow of her own doom, has not lost all her family, does not pursue the last living bit of her past, was not betrayed to bloody ruin by her love.

For them she tries, ignoring the ache behind her ribs just by the spine, that empty bit ripped away and stolen. She feels it somewhere out there wandering, always moving with a restlessness unseemly in the dead. When she's alone she lets the empty place tug her eyes towards that last piece. If she squints her eyes behind her bangs she imagines she can see her other self.

Bandaging someone's arm, picking flowers with a child, stealing some dead girl's soul.

She wonders, as she rides behind her friends, if her previous incarnation cares what she's doing. This careless toying with other's destinies, stopping the souls from growing into their next lives. There will be no karmic justice meted out to these women; they just cease to exist.

But she is supposed to be whole, not wondering if in the next turn of the wheel her reincarnation will be forced to pay for what that one piece of soul had done. So she smiles and pretends that she knows what she's talking about when she tells them that everything will come out alright.


	2. For those who didn't come first

A/N: If you haven't noticed these are very Kagome based. I'll play with other characters later but for now I'm happy with her. **Storms** For Those Who Didn't Come First 

_And yet perhaps this is the reason you cry,  
this the nightmare you wake screaming from:  
being forever  
in the pre-trembling of a house that falls.  
**-Galway Kinnell, "Little Sleep's-Head Sprouting Hair In The Moonlight"**_

She wants to ask 'do you know what it means that I'm your reincarnation? What that implies?' She doesn't though, it would be frowned upon and everyone seems to forget how this rebirth thing is supposed to work. She ignores the dead eyes watching her in confusion, because they can't understand the changes in themselves, and instead she watches the long grass sway under invisible fingers.

You can't see the wind unless it touches something; like ghosts, like words.

Kagome feels herself an imperfect reflection, the distorted image you see in warped metal with grooves and holes where there shouldn't be. She hates feeling that, her own subconscious forgetting what being a reincarnation should say about her. Kikyo is supposed to be the imperfect one. Kagome is the one who had five hundred years to work on herself in whatever place it is that souls go between lives.

Kagome's convinced you aren't supposed to meet the incarnations before you, that there's a reason you're separated by time. She hates that she can't live up to herself, is bitter at the comparisons. But she doesn't hate Kikyo; it's not in her to feel that way about herself.

That's the part of the soul Kikyo took.


	3. Telling Tales

**Storms**

_Telling Tales_

_Some stories are magical, meant to be sung_

_Song from the mouth of the river _

_When the world was young _

_And all of these spirit voices rule the night._

_**-Paul Simon, "Spirit Voices"**_

A tale can start in many ways. Because of this it is many tales, and at the same time each of these is only one way of telling the same story. There were once two brothers. This is the tale of the elder brother, a demon who had almost everything. He was noble and strong and beautiful, but cold. He always pursued the things he wanted without thought for the consequences to others. It was what he didn't have, the almost, that twisted him, knowing that he was not the chosen one. He spent his life safe behind the walls of his prejudice, believing his path wide and straight and secure. Until one day, he realized it was not enough.

There once were two brothers. This is the tale of the younger, who was clever and skillful and wild. There were people that loved him, but because of his past he could not see this. There was a place for him, but as only half he never felt welcome there. His older brother knew the who and what and where of himself andthe youngercould not carve himself up to make himself fit, so he hated his brother for having what he never could.

This is also the tale of a young woman. Who she was, nobody was quite sure, except that she had strange blue eyes and hair like midnight, and she came from some time far away. She came to have a myth and a soul ripped from her body and was forced to wander to find the scattered pieces of both. With delicate hands she stole the cold heart and the feral one and tried to build a bridge with strands of silver hair.


	4. Strange Comfort

A/N: Maybe you hadn't noticed my love of sess/kag? Well, I'm coming out with it now. Oh how I love them, they're horrible for each other but yet so perfect.

**Storms**

Strange Comfort

_April is the cruelest month, breeding  
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing  
Memory and desire, stirring  
Dull roots with spring rain.  
**-T. S. Eliot, **_**The Waste Land**

She wonders at how it feels when he holds her, at how he can look at her without another face overlaying her own. She looks up into familiar eyes without the familiar expression, a whole new personality. It's like walking up the stairs at home to find steps missing.

When she thinks that, she wonders if she's committing the same injustice that he had spared her. She shakes herself, the arm over her waist tightening. That life is dead and gone; another incarnation, a different boy with demon blood in his veins.

With small hands she traces the red slashes of color on one slender wrist and revels in the lack of déjà vu; loves the difference as she does the demon beneath them.


	5. Hauntings

Storms

Hauntings

_Death belongs to God alone. By what right do men touch that unknown thing? _

_-Victor Hugo, Les Miserable_

She doesn't know what made her realize it but once she did she couldn't stop. They were all dead, all of them. Dead and gone. They were bones and dust in the ground, and had been for hundreds of years.

She knelt infront of the God tree, staring up at the memory of a dead hanyou boy, and dug her fingers into the dirt like roots wondering where they were buried, if she would ever know, if she would be there when it happened.

A hand touched her shoulder and she turned to look up into amber eyes but all she saw was a ghost.


End file.
